This Town's Best Mess

I know, logically, intellectually, what a beautifully easy life I have. It's hard to see it sometimes, though.

*phone rings once*
H (standing near the phone cradle, but handling raw chicken) (angrily): Somebody answer the phone!
R walks to the cradle, broom and dustpan in hand.
R (quietly): The phone's not in the cradle. You had it last, didn't you?
*phone continues ringing*
H (shouting): Well, it's in the OFFICE!
(the office is in the detached garage, through the house and across the backyard)
R (agitated): I'm not running out there to answer your phone just because you left --
H (screaming): WELL, I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!
*phone stops ringing*

I've never been a crier. Over the past year I've probably cried a total of 5 times, and that time-frame includes a painful break-up, a rape at the hands of someone I loved, leaving Oxford, and a period of total social ostracization. But over the past week I find myself crying nearly every day. And sure, sometimes it's about my lack of a future, my not having a job, my nonexistent sense of self-efficacy, but most often it's about Him.

It tires me out, this crying thing.